


The Goblin's Empress

by amandaterasu



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Internalized Misogyny, Intrigue, Misogyny, POV Female Character, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-05-19 17:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5974831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandaterasu/pseuds/amandaterasu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A retelling of the events of the novel from Csethiro Ceredin's point of view, extending a bit past the end to resolve some of the new storylines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. News comes to the Untheileneise Court

**Author's Note:**

> This work is still in progress. I would greatly appreciate any feedback you are willing to give so that I can ensure that it lives up to its potential! I am also looking for beta readers, if anyone is interested.

“ _The Wisdom of Choharo_ has crashed.”

Csethiro Ceredin, eldest daughter of the Marquess Ceredel, snapped her cerulean eyes up from her blue-backed book to her father, who had just collapsed onto a large, pink velvet divan in the sitting room. The pale skin of his face, normally a perfect facade of geniality, was furrowed and taut with worry. He stared in shock at the pneumatic, which had interrupted the fantastic duel between Prince Valesthis and Count Ebrimel, his hands shaking.

Csethiro paused for a moment, waiting for some sort of explanation, then returned to her novel. The nefarious Count Ebrimel caught Valesthis’s rapier in his cloak, knocking aside what would have been the killing strike, and then -

Virenu Celedaran’s long, lacquered fingernails dug into Csethiro’s collarbone and she was forced to look up at her stepmother. “Thy _father_ was _speaking_.” The (slightly) older woman pursed her lips and looked down in disapproval, though Csethiro was hard pressed to determine if it was over her decision to ignore her father’s outburst or the reading material.

Csethiro sighed, snapped her book shut with one hand, and set it on the small ebony table beside her plush, velvet chair. The duel for the hand of Arch Duchess Perenan would have to wait.

A few minutes of heavy silence filled the room, the Marquess reading, and re-reading, the pneumatic, before handing it to his wife. Virenu lifted a small pair of delicate spectacles from the chain around her neck and held them over the pneumatic, a talisman to reveal hidden meaning in the cramped handwriting. Csethiro glanced at her father for a moment, staring at his hands. Finally, Virenu spoke.

“ _The Wisdom of Choharo_ has crashed.”

Csethiro had the foresight to look away, towards a wall, lest either of her parents see her bright blue eyes roll towards the heavens. She coughed, delicately. “A terrible tragedy, that. Knowst thee why news of it is delivered to us via pneumatic?”

Her father smoothed his hair with one hand. “Varenechibel was on board.”

“Has Prince Nemolis been notified?” Csethiro straightened her back, all thoughts of reading forgotten.

“Prince Nemolis was on board.”

Csethiro swallowed hard. “Has Arch Duke Nazhira been notified?”

“Arch Duke Nazhira was on board.”

“Is there anyone that was _not_ on board?” she snapped sarcastically.

The Marquess Ceredel looked up and met his daughter’s eyes. There was something unrecognizable there, that simultaneously made Csethiro want to comfort her father, and bolt from the room. “Arch Duke Maia, Empress Chenelo’s son.”

Virenu sucked in a sharp breath. “The goblin.”

Csethiro’s mind raced with the implications. A half-Barizheise emperor? In a court that abhorred their southern neighbors? This was going to be the largest shake-up the court had experienced in some time. After the Empress Chenelo’s exile, Emperor Varenechibel IV had purged any goblin influence from the court, save the presence of the Barizheise ambassador, who was little liked, and ill used. He was so unpopular, in fact, that Csethiro couldn’t even remember his name, just his dark face in the sea of white.

The Marquess coughed, and yanked Csethiro from her reverie, back into the moment. Both Virenu and her father were looking at her, and he was licking his lips repeatedly: a sign he was about to say something she wouldn’t like. After another few heartbeats of silence, he opened his mouth to speak, but Virenu suddenly cut him off.

“Csethiro, I’ve just noticed, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen to thy wardrobe,” Her stepmother’s smile was wide, but unfeeling. “I was thinking, we could have a tailor attend you, and then perhaps, look into hiring a swordsman to be thy sparring partner?”

Csethiro’s heart skipped a beat. For years she had begged, pleaded, and cajoled to have the opportunity to practice her rudimentary skills on more than just apologetic pages or a wooden figure in the corner of her room. The Marquess had all but outright forbidden her to do anything more, barely allowing her to keep the sword the Marquess Celehel and his daughter, Csoru Zhasan - Csoru _Zhasanai_ , she corrected herself, with more satisfaction than was necessary - had sent as a gift for her sixteenth birthday. 

But now here stood her stepmother offered her the thing she yearned for so dearly: real instruction in the sword. Not parroting what she had observed from the drills of the Untheileneise Guard, not copying what she read in her books. Real, honest, lessons. In her innermost, most secret heart, she knew there was a catch.

A few quick breaths, and Csethiro steadied herself, found her center, and refocused her gaze on her father. She wanted to give some long prepared speech about letting his wife speak for him, about bribery, and honesty, and any other virtues that would sound superior in the moment. But all she could muster was a half-gasped, half-croaked, “What is it?”

To the Marquess’s credit, he didn’t look to his wife to answer. He folded his hands in his lap, and smiled softly. “The Arch Duke is unmarried, and only three years thy junior.”

The sick weight of what they were implying pierced her to the core, and she involuntarily raised a hand to her lips. “Father, thou cannot.” Csethiro remembered all too well the “courtship” of an Emperor, from Csoru’s marriage just a few years before. How little say Csoru had in the matter. The parade of fancy dresses. And while Csoru didn’t mind any of this, the one that hurt Csethiro the most was the idea of being trapped. Locked forever in the Untheileneise Court. For what reason would an Empress have to explore? To learn? To-

Virenu crossed the room in a few quick steps, and slapped Csethiro hard across the face. “Thy father will do as he must for the good of the Ceredada, and thyself. Thou aught thank thy father for thinking thee worthy, and pray the Arch Duke takes a liking to thee.” Her stepmother’s face twisted in a sneer. “Lest thee be known as a woman who wasn’t even good enough for a _goblin_.”

* * *

The death of a monarch, like any other task the nobility of the Ethuveraz turned itself to, carried a long list of protocols, all of which must be attended to, lest one give offense. And so Csethiro bent herself to her proscribed role, with the same cold detachment that defined most of her actions at court. Her pale silks and colorful tashin sticks were set aside for the black velvets and bloodstone jewels that she had last worn for her mother’s death five years ago. The smell of cedar hung thick, and cloying in the room as the maid she shared with her stepmother, Serethan, pulled a gown out of the trunk and stretched it on the bed.

“Your stepmother bids you be prepared within the hour, Dach’Osmin,” Serethan dipped a quick curtsey. “She has decided that you shall both attend Csoru Zhasan in her hour of greatest grief.” And so, an hour and a half later, she was being seated in Csoru’s sitting room in the Alcethmeret, among the crowd of other women, eager to comfort the new widow. Csethiro looked around for her good friend, Arch Duchess Vedero, but she was nowhere to be found. Csethiro suspected she had turned down the invitation, like so many others. Vedero's step-mother was just as trying as Virenu, in her own way.

Csethiro had to give the widowed empress credit. She was at least pretending to be grieving Varenechibel, and to the credit of the others present, no one had the audacity to mention that she occasionally paused her sniffling to glance around, and make sure all eyes were on her. In truth, the most tragic figure in the room was not Csoru, with her perfectly smudged make up to imply she had been crying, or Princess Sheveän, clutching her daughters and wailing over the loss of her husband. Sitting near the princess, in silence, was Stano Bazhevin, the fiancee of Arch Duke Ciris.

Stano was the least enviable person in the room. As Ciris’s intended bride, she and the Arch Duke had already exchanged the oath rings, and her family had already signed the marriage contract, which made her one of the Drazhada. However, as they had not yet actually performed the wedding, the Drazhada had no responsibility to care for her after Ciris’s untimely death. And no decision as to her care could be made until the new emperor, the least loved and least elvish of Varenechibel’s children, Maia, arrived at court.

“He’s going to abdicate, of course.” Sheveän’s voice cut through Csethiro’s reverie, drawing her attention to the older Princess. “How could he not? We are well aware of how he is, having spoken with His Imperial Serenity and Csoru Zhasan on numerous occassions. And it is no secret that Varenechibel, may Ulis grant him peace, preferred our son, Idra.” A few of the women nodded, but Csethiro raged behind her porcelain mask of propriety. Regardless of the court’s opinion of the youngest of the late Emperor’s sons, or whom said Emperor would prefer, the decision whether or not to abdicate would still rest with the Arch Duke himself, and no one else.

Csethiro heard her voice, before she even realized she was speaking. “While that may be true, can we be sure that the Arch Duke will want to abdicate?” She tacked on a belated, “Your Highness,” with a deep curtsy, but Princess Sheveän just laughed.

“We are sure he will abdicate. It is the best thing for the people, and his advisors are sure to tell him just that.” The Princess nodded, as if the discussion were finished, and turned her attention back to her youngest daughter, Ino, stroking her hair gently.

Csoru, either believing that to be the end of it, or finally tired of not being the center of attention, sniffled loudly, and draped herself across the arm of her chair. She had left her long, ivory hair unbound, and it fell across her tiny shoulders, bouncing softly with every sob. “I wonder,” Csoru whimpered, her voice taking on that high pitched, squeaky quality that set Csethiro’s teeth on edge, “I wonder if he thought of me, at the end.” She then devolved into a pile of bouncing hair and squeaky sobs, as a few of the ladies still eager to curry favor with the widowed empress sought to console her.

Csethiro felt her stepmother’s elbow in her ribs, and turned to find her glancing pointedly between Csethiro and Csoru. She knew her father, and her stepmother, would be pleased to see her extend some hand of friendship, but for once, Csethiro didn’t have it in her. Too much was happening too fast, and for the first time in a long time, Csethiro felt as if she was on the verge of being unable to handle it. This morning, her most pressing worry was finishing her novel and fending off the men her father wished to marry her off to. Now, she had the option of being properly trained with a sword, but the price, joining the monstrous dance of an imperial marriage, having to put herself out there for some boy three years her junior, who’d never lived at court, and had not the faintest idea what the women here were like, that was too high. And as usual, her father and stepmother expected her to bury her feelings beneath six gulps (why six?) of willful silence, and accept what was done to her. How much longer would she be forced to be a passive witness to her own life?

Virenu’s elbow became insistent, and just as Csethiro’s lips parted to curse the woman, consequences be damned, a maid entered, and curtsied to Csoru. “Dinner is served, Csoru Zhasan, if you and your guests would like to eat.”

Csethiro could have kissed her.

* * *

After dinner, which was a grueling competition of histrionics between Csoru, Sheveän, and any woman eager to earn their favor, Csethiro found herself blessedly free to make any other personal calls she felt were necessary. She wasted no time in visiting her good friend, Vedero. She waited outside of the Arch Duchess’s rooms in silence, nodding quietly to the others who passed, scurrying back to their rooms to plan for the coming changes. A courier passed, one of the few Csethiro recognized, and stopped to bow to her.

“Dach’Osmin Ceredin,” he said, straightening.

She arched one delicate eyebrow. “Mer Aisava, if we remember correctly?”

The courier smiled, a soft, wide smile that set Csethiro at ease. “If we may be so bold, would you give the Arch Duchess our condolences on her loss?”

Csethiro nodded. “Of course. Are you heading to bed?”

Mer Aisava shook his head. “The Lord Chancellor has sent us to deliver a message,” he held up a single letter, and added, pointedly, “to Edonomee.”

Csethiro’s eyebrow arched even higher. “Just now? Should the Lord Chancellor not have sent you hours ago, as soon as word reached the Court?”

The Courier pursed his lips, and met Csethiro’s gaze. They stood in silence together, though it conveyed more than either of them could politely say. Finally, he responded. “The Lord Chancellor felt that there were more pressing matters than notifying the Arch Duke of his father’s tragic death.”

A secretary opened the door to Vedero’s apartments form the inside, and smiled to Csethiro. “The Arch Duchess will see you now, Dach’Osmin Ceredin.”

Csethiro nodded her thanks to the courier, who bowed again, then headed inside. She was led to a small sitting room, where Vedero sat, motionless, a black mourning veil covering her tear-stained face, clutching a maquillage stained handkerchief. The two women remained in silence, one having just experienced a terrible loss, and the other never having been good with words.

It was Vedero who broke the silence, with a shivering smile and a nervous laugh, “Thou art the first to come visit me, my friend.” Her lower lip trembled, and Csethiro took a seat beside her, ignoring propriety. She wrapped her arms tightly around the Arch Duchess, who began to sob like a child. Unlike Csoru’s sobs, delicate, graceful motions intended to elicit sympathy, these were wracking, ugly things, but they engendered a more powerful emotional response than any perfectly timed squeak ever could.

Csethiro said nothing. Not of the crash of The Wisdom of Choharo, not of the fact that Vedero’s tears were probably destroying the veil she was wearing, and certainly not of the young, inexperienced, unwanted goblin half-brother that now controlled her dearest friend’s fate.


	2. The Untheileneise Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Csethiro begins her lessons with a member of the Untheileneise Guard, and catches her first glimpse of the new emperor.

The feeling of hands on her woke Csethiro with a start. Her eyes snapped open and she reached for her attacker, only to find her hands clamped around Serethan’s forearms, and the older woman watching her with slate grey eyes. She sat, frozen, the two of of them locked together for a few pounding heartbeats, before the fear seeped out of her muscles, allowing her to release the maid.

“Apologies,” Csethiro said, her voice husky with sleep. “We must have been having a nightmare.”

Serethan nodded, and slipped away. “Your instructor waits for you without, Dach’Osmin.”

A new vigor infused her limbs, and Csethiro pushed away the thick blankets, swinging her legs over the side of her bed. “Really? Already?” She quickly crossed to her armoire, digging in the bottom drawer for something suitable, before cold realization hit the pit of her stomach. “We,” She turned to Serethan, her deep blue eyes wide with shock. “We have nothing appropriate to wear.”

The maid raised her eyebrow curiously, and pursed her lips, which were painted a deep red, to match her mourning wear. “Truly?”

Csethiro pulled out every bit of active wear she had managed to gather over the years without her father’s knowledge. Mended pajamas, cast off silken pants, and her father’s doublets, long out of fashion. Much to her dismay, none of them were appropriate for mourning, being all pale or faded silks.

The two women stood for a few moments, surveying the clothing. “Your stepmother will not permit you to go out if you are not in mourning, Dach’osmin,” Serethan said, sucking her lower lip thoughtfully. “We would be willing to dye a set for you, but it will not be ready now. We suppose you must wear a gown, for today.”

Csethiro sighed heavily, and scowled in misery at the offending fabrics. “We suppose you are right, Serethan.”

The maid patted her shoulder affectionately. “Come, let us get you dressed. You can tell him you were not expecting him yet, and your active wear is still being dyed. It has been less than a day since you have learned of your father’s kindness.”

* * *

A few minutes later, Csethiro Ceredin stood in the sitting room of the Ceredada apartments, her hand extended to one Mer Telimezh, who kissed it gently, before straightening from his perfect military bow. “It is an honor to be selected to serve you, Dach’Osmin Ceredin.” He seemed a touch nervous, but his movements were precise, and he wore his Untheileneise Guard uniform with the comfort of experience. “We were told you wish to learn the sword?” His eyes flicked over her formal court mourning gown. “How much experience do you have, if any, Dach’Osmin?”

Csethiro blushed, and looked down at her hands, stammering a response. “W-we had nothing that was both appropriate for exertion, and mourning. Our lady’s maid is dying a set, but we did not wish to give offense…” she trailed off, nervously wringing her hands.

Telimezh laughed, and shook his head. “It’s fine. We assume that any time you may be called to use such a weapon, you would be in skirts anyway. Just as the guard trains in armor, so you must train in skirts.” His jade green eyes, flecked with gold, seemed to sparkle with laughter. “Come, Dach’Osmin. We will escort you to the yard.”

Relief flooded her delicate features as she reached for her sword, and followed her new instructor into the hall, in the early morning hours. This early, the palace was mostly empty, with only a few couriers and officials walking through on official business. Much to her surprise, as they turned into a new hallway, Telimezh held out his arm to stop her.

She looked up to see Csevet, walking solemnly through the palace, followed by an older man, and some half-goblin ragpicker’s child. It took her a moment to realize, and then she sucked in her breath. Despite the worn mourning clothes, just a little too small, and the childish braid, the goblin boy had the same arched brow and strong chin of his father, Varenechibel.

Arch Duke Maia Drazhar, the new emperor, seemed lost in thought, observing the court without truly seeing. As his gaze swept over Telimezh and Csethiro, she dipped into a deep, formal curtsy, and she felt Telimezh pay his own precise respects beside her. She kept her eyes on him as his gaze passed, flicking to a courier who hurried back the way he’d come after seeing them. Csevet noticed her, and nodded politely, before leading His Imperial Serenity away towards the Alcethmeret.

As soon as the new emperor was out of sight, both Csethiro and Telimezh rose, and looked at each other. Telimezh was grinning, but the grin faded when he saw the barely contained fear on Csethiro’s face.

“What troubles you, Dach’Osmin?” Telimezh asked quietly, raising an eyebrow.

Csethiro looked away, licking her lips. “We didn’t expect him to be so,” Her mind raced through the options: poor, dark, unfashionable, she settled on one and continued. “Young.”

Telimezh nodded. “From what we understand, he celebrates his nineteenth birthday on Winternight. It is said he will be a fresh change to the long reign of his illustrious father.” Telimezh’s warmth seemed to fade slightly when speaking of Varenechibel. “Regardless, what must be shall be. Shall we continue to the yard, Dach’Osmin?”

Csethiro nodded. “At your leisure, Mer Telimezh.” He bowed, and lead her away from the Alcethmeret, but she could not stop herself from looking over her shoulder one last time, at the young, underdressed Emperor’s retreating back.

* * *

“Again!” Telimezh barked, watching her as she went through her own swordwork, long developed from days of watching the guard, and nights of blue-backed novels. His eyes didn’t leave her for a moment, and she felt more vulnerable before him than she’d ever felt near any man. She returned to her starting position, sword in her right hand, her left hand clutching her skirt, raising it to prevent it from interfering with her feet, where the guard usually held a small dagger. Csethiro leveled her gaze at the training dummy, turned her side to it, and extended the sword, sidestepping forward to execute a series of slashes and jabs.

She repeated her training exercises ten times, her face red and her ears drooping, before Telimezh asked her to stop. “Not bad, especially not for a beginner, Dach’Osmin.” He walked around her and rubbed his chin. “You’ve been watching us.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, Mer Telimezh,” She said breathlessly, and curtsied, almost a reflex with her tutors. He grinned.

“Your footwork is off, and your posture is good for a lady, bad for swordsmanship. However, you have obviously been working, and even now I’d wager you could defeat any other lady in the palace.” He grinned. “But we think you can be better still, if you’re willing to make some accomodations.” Without asking, Telimezh approached her, and took her arm in his hands, raising her elbow until it was shoulder height. “You are a Lady of the Ceredada, one of the First Houses of the Ethuveraz. You will never fight in an army, or serve as a guard. The Nobility are not the rank and file. You cannot be a soldier.” Csethiro’s heart stopped, and she felt sadness cloud her features. Telimezh must have sensed it, because he took her hand from her skirt, and moved it to the scabbard at her hip. “You can, however, be a duelist.” She glanced at him, and saw his smile, and soon she was smiling as well.

Telimezh traded out his guard’s sword for a long, thin blade, similar to her own. “A lady’s advantage is speed, and accuracy. You will never swing a sword as hard as a man. So you must move faster, and to greater effect.” He motioned for her to sheath her sword, and she did, watching as he walked around to face her. Rather than turn to his side, he put his right foot forward, and his left foot back. He placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword, and his left on the scabbard. “In a formal duel, Dach’Osmin, your first stroke is the only one you get.”

Csethiro mimicked his position, and nodded. “At your command, Mer Telimezh.”

* * *

They spent hours there, training. Much longer than she expected to be permitted, but she knew better than to question it when the Goddesses smiled on her. Telimezh taught her to use her dancing skills to her advantage, to draw and strike in a single motion, her sword to slide from it’s scabbard and gut her target in one smooth motion, and the wind whipped past her blade, causing the whole to sing, every time she did it right.

For practice, he had her lunge and strike her way up and down the yard, and as she went to make her second lap, she saw him looking up at one of the terraces. She stopped, and looked up herself. Eshevis Tethimar, the son of Duke Tethimel of Thu-Athamar, was watching with a smirk. Upon seeing he had been noticed, he called down, “Ah, Dach’Osmin Ceredin! Found a profession for yourself, since no man will have a horse-faced wife?”

Csethiro scowled up at him. “Just learning to keep annoying, ill-mannered suitors away from the Arch Duchess, Dach’Osmer Tethimar.” She meant it as a jab, but he just laughed.

“Good, keep her chaste for us, then!” A few of his lackeys, that she had not seen, began to laugh with him. Csethiro looked away, and saw Telimezh frowning in Tethimar’s direction.

As Eshevis moved away, Telimezh faced Csethiro, and bowed apologetically. “Please forgive us, Dach’Osmin Ceredin. We gave no thought to your reputation when having you practice in the yard.” When he stood she could see that his brow was furrowed, and his ears were pressed back against his head.

She placed an affectionate hand on his shoulder. “Mer Telimezh, don’t think on it. We wished to learn the sword, and perhaps it will cause some to mind themselves better, if they know we’ve got some idea what we’re doing with one.” She laughed brightly, and Telimezh blushed. They stood like that, for a moment, until the door on the far end of the yard opened, and they jumped apart like servants afraid of being caught.

The Captain of the Untheileneise Guard, Orthema, and a man she did not know walked out of the door, heading for the opposite end of the yard. They approached, and bowed stiffly. “Dach’Osmin Ceredin! What a surprise! We had honestly thought you would tire of this fancy and have returned to your rooms by now.” Orthema’s smile was genuine, and she doubted he even realized the implied insult in his words.

Csethiro opened her mouth to respond, but Telimezh jumped to her defense. “The Lady knows her way around a sword, Captain. It appears she’s been observing our work, and has a sword of her own. We had best be careful lest she shame us all, soon.” He smiled boyishly to the Captain, who laughed.

“Dach’Osmin, it is our pleasure to introduce Mer Deret Beshelar.” Captain Orthema gestured to the man beside him, who bowed expertly, like a brand new clockwork toy. “We are sending Beshelar here to see if he meets with the approval of His Imperial Serenity, to be one of his Nohecharei.” Beshelar straightened, and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide the proud smile that was threatening to break his face in half.

Deciding to be politic, Csethiro said, “We are sure you will meet with our new emperor’s approval, Mer Beshelar. You certainly have the look of an experienced warrior.”

Beshelar bowed again. “Thank you, Dach’Osmin Ceredin. You are too kind to us.”

She waved him off, and the two continued on their way, out of the yard. Csethiro turned to Telimezh, to find him slightly crestfallen. “What troubles you, Mer Telimezh?”

Her instructor sighed. “We admit, we had somewhat wished to be selected for the Nohecharei.” His face was long with disappointment, but he tried, and failed miserably, to hide it.

Csethiro winked. “We suppose it is good that the Emperor requires two guardians of the body, then, hmm?”

Telimezh’s smile brightened, and he recommenced the lesson.

* * *

Later that evening, Csethiro found herself sitting beside Vedero on an ebony wood and ivory silk divan, their eyes jumping between Csoru and Sheveän, both still in hysterics over the crash, though Csoru had found some new insult to heap upon the others. It seemed the Emperor had decided not only not to attend her that afternoon, but he expected her to attend him the next morning! And to make matters worse, he had signed his letter as “Edrehasivar the Seventh”! Didn’t he know what an insult it was that he was not going to be Varenechibel the Fifth?

Csethiro and Vedero exchanged glances over their tea, and Vedero cracked a small smile behind the porcelain. For all that her family’s deaths grieved Vedero deeply, for the first time, in a long time, Csoru and Sheveän’s station had fallen just enough for the two to be able to mock them quietly, and they intended to take advantage of it.

Sheveän shook her head at Csoru. “Csoru Zhasan, don’t worry yourself over it. We doubt this Edrehasivar,” she spoke the name as if it tasted of lemons, “will remain in power for long. Let the boy enjoy himself for a few days, then he will abdicate, and we are sure Idra will be happy to attend to any advice you wish to give.”

Vedero and Csethiro had already broached this subject the night before, yet the Arch Duchess masterfully feigned ignorance. “You are saying that our younger brother intends to abdicate?” She raised her eyebrows in surprise and tilted her head like a clockwork doll. Vedero had always been better at playing dumb than Csethiro.

The widowed princess nodded. “He must. Everyone knows Varenechibel wanted our dear departed husband, and then our son, to succeed him.”

Csethiro quietly sipped her tea, while Vedero struck. “We were not aware that our late father’s wishes in such an unhappy event as this had been delineated. That gives us great comfort, to know that Father’s plans for our marriage will be carried out.” A few of the other ladies nearly choked on their tea, and Csoru bit her lip in an effort to keep from laughing. The only thing less believable than Varenechibel having enough precognition to predict the crash was the thought of Vedero happily accepting a marriage.

Sheveän backpedaled. “The Arch Duke must be aware of the Emperor’s wishes. It is no secret that he was unwanted.”

Csethiro set her teacup on its saucer delicately. “One would think that now, as the ‘unwanted’ Arch Duke is about to be transfigured into our emperor, that one would occupy themselves with ensuring they were on his good side, not planning for his hasty removal from the throne.”

Princess Sheveän rounded on Csethiro. “Are you implying something, Dach’Osmin Ceredin?” Her eyes were narrowed, and her lips pursed. This time, it was Vedero who came to her rescue.

“We are sure that she was only thinking of her own options. It’s no secret that her parents, along with every other family with an unwed daughter, are about to put their poor girls through all sorts of madness.”

Sheveän laughed, and her whole body relaxed. “Merciful Goddesses, We remember when our parents were attempting to match us with Prince Nemolis. We do pity any young woman who must suffer parents attempting to match her with a hobgoblin.”

Csethiro bowed her head. “We are, as ever, willing to serve the Ceredada and the Emperor in whatever way we must.” She exchanged a look with Vedero, who patted her hand gently, while the Princess settled back into her seat.

“We will see what we think of this boy,” Csoru said, taking a square of chocolate from a silver tray beside her. “And how bad his Barizheise blood reigns.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your continued reading, and your support. I hope you have enjoyed our latest chapter!


	3. The Widowed Empress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Csethiro finds the knack of her sword work, faces other ladies at court, and is reminded of the risks that come with courting an emperor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, things have been a little busy here. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I'm sorry that it's a touch longer than the others. Don't forget to leave a comment, they really keep me going through the hard parts of writing!

The next morning, Csethiro arrived at the yard groaning, her body full of aches and pains. She had never trained as hard as she had the day before, and now she was paying the price. Every step was agony, and her back was tight. When she arrived, she found Telimezh and Captain Orthema speaking quietly together.

The two men glanced in her direction, and she reflexively put on the serene mask of nobility. A soft, barely imperceptible smile, a straight back, her hands clasped gently before her. Csethiro looked aside, as if enjoying the craftsmanship of the nearest training dummy. Captain Orthema approached, Telimezh following dutifully, a half-step behind. The Goblin-blooded Captain gave her a sharp salute. “We must request your most forgiveness, Dach’Osmin Ceredin. We have made the decision to award the position of second Nohecharei to Mer Telimezh. As such, we will serve as your instructor until such a time as a suitable replacement can be found.”

Telimezh stepped forward, and bowed, taking Csethiro’s hand in his, and kissing her knuckle softly. “Please accept our apologies for abandoning you so early in your training, Dach’Osmin.” Telimezh’s voice was contrite enough, but when he lifted his head to meet her eyes, she could see the child-like excitement. “We are sure that you are beyond our teaching regardless, and Captain Orthema will prove more suited to your needs.”

Csethiro found his smile infectious, and smiled back. “Do not think on it, Mer Telimezh. Serve our new emperor with our blessing, though you hardly need it.”

Telimezh straightened, and Orthema nodded. “You should be off, Telimezh. Do not keep Beshelar waiting. He’s got to be in need of rest by now.” The younger man nodded, sketched a quick bow to Csethiro and Orthema, then headed off into the barracks.

Orthema watched Csethiro in silence for a moment, and she shifted nervously. “We hope we prove worthy of your teaching, Captain.” She curtsied, and placed her hand on the hilt of her sword, in a play at combining the traditional curtsy with the traditional duelists bow.

The Captain’s face seemed unmoving, but she could see his eyes wrinkle in a smile behind his mask. “We are sure you will, Dach’Osmin, or we will send you back to your father. While we have no problem training women, we do not believe they are disposed to the intricacies of the sword. Exceptions,” he nodded appreciatively to Csethiro, “do exist, of course.” He stepped away from the wall, and moved into the traditional duelist’s stance she had learned from Telimezh the day before. “Shall we?”

Csethiro squared off opposite him, and curtsied, her eyes never leaving Captain Orthema’s sword arm. As she rose, she swept her left foot back, and brought her right hand around to the hilt of her sword. The movement was second nature, and suddenly, Csethiro remembered where she’d done this before.

_Csethiro curstied, then swept her left foot back, and brought her right hand around to her left hip as she rose. Her dancing instructor, a short little elf with a bald head and wiry muscles, bowed low in return. “Just so, Dach’Osmin,” Mer Lohaisar said, and stepped to her left, while she stepped to her right, passing each other on the left side. “Just like that.”_

_She brought her right hand up from her hip in a graceful ark, the trailing silk of her sleeve tracing the same arc in the air, blocking her face from her instructor’s view for a moment, before she placed her hand on her right hip, and turned on her right heel to face her instructor again._

_Mer Lohaisar smiled. “Very good, Dach’Osmin.” He hooked his left arm with hers, and they turned in a circle on the dance floor, always keeping their left arms between their bodies, and their eyes never leaving each other. “You learn very quickly.”_

The side of Captain Orthema’s mouth quirked, and he said, “Are you ready, Dach’Osmin?”

She nodded, once, sharply. “Of course.”

They both stepped forward, bringing their right hands from their scabbards, holding their blades, that traced the same arc in the air that she’d come to know her whole life. She stepped to her right, and he stepped to his, and their swords met in the air between them, the metal ringing with an acidic tone that reverberated off the stone walls of the yard. Csethiro met Captain Orthema’s eyes, and watched as they first showed surprise, then frustration, then amusement.

“Mer Telimezh was right about you, Dach’ Osmin. You learn very quickly.”

* * *

 

Csethiro leaned into her bath and groaned. Her muscles ached even worse, after a few hours dueling with Captain Orthema, and the hot water was a welcome reprieve from the pain. Just as her breasts disappeared beneath the rose petals covering the water, her stepmother pushed her way into the room. Csethiro, long used to such intrusions, merely raiseed one of her delicate eyebrows. “Yes, Merrem?”

Virenu smiled thinly. “Csethiro. Child. How art thy new lessons?” She folded her hands in front of her stomach, and let her eyes flit over the tub momentarily. Serethan stepped into the room behind her, glancing about nervously.

Letting her gaze flit over the two women, Csethiro knew something she didn’t like was about to happen. She sank a little lower in the tub, wrapping her arms around herself for comfort. “They go well, stepmother. Truly, I am grateful for the consideration shown to my desires by both my father and thee.”

Virenu relaxed slightly, and nodded. “Indeed, we care deeply for thy happiness, and future success.” She included the Marquess Ceredel in the statement, but for a moment, Csethiro wondered if she included herself as well. “As per our arrangement, we have been visited by the dressmaker. Once thou’rt finished with thy bath, thou wilt join us in the drawing room, where he might take thy measurements. Then we will join Csoru Zhasan for luncheon, to hear of her meeting with the Emperor.”

Csethiro nodded, and Virenu left. Serethan grabbed a stool and sat behind Csethiro, braiding her hair in an intricate fashion. They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sound the soft splashing of water, and the rustle of Csethiro’s long, ivory tresses. Finally, Serethan spoke. “She does love you, Dach’Osmin. We know you do not, that is to say,” Serethan trailed off. She removed one of her hands from Csethiro’s hair, and placed it gently on her shoulder. “Thou dost miss thy mother, Ulis grant her peace.”

Csethiro’s lower lip trembled, and she raised her hands from the water, covering her face. It would not do for anyone to see her cry. Long ago, she had learned to cry silent, and still, so that no one need know she wept. It was an asset in the Untheileneise Court, especially to women.

Serethan let her weep for a moment, and said nothing, carefully pinning the twisted braids into place with bloodstone pins and a pair of ebony tashin sticks. When she was finished, she found a simple black linen robe, and laid it out on the bed, with a band of red linen to cinch it. Serethan approached the door, and curtsied. “Dach’Osmin.”

Csethiro lowered her hands from her face, but did not turn to look at the maidservant. “Serethan.” Her voice broke, and she took a long, shuddering breath to calm herself. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, but stable. “Thank you.”

Serethan nodded, and slipped out the door.

* * *

 

A young page, Cora, led the Ceredada women into the widowed empress’s apartments. Servants stood mutely by, averting their eyes from the dreadful scene. Csoru had flung herself across a low divan of antique silk, and sobbed theatrically, while her favorites danced attendance on her, attempting to ply her with sweets and cordials. Csethiro raised her eyebrow, and murmured under her breath, “We take it the audience did not go well.” Virenu shot her a scolding look, but for once, there was no malice in it.

Csoru looked up from her hysterics, her pale gold hair streaming artfully across her face. “Oh, Csethiro! We had heard you were coming to comfort us after that-that hobgoblin’s terrible display.”

A few of the ladies gasped at Csoru’s use of such a crude slur, but Csethiro sighed. “Zhasanai, you must be distraught, to use such language to describe his Imperial Serenity.”

Csoru’s lower lip protruded, and her brow furrowed in anger. “You’re just taking his side because you want to marry him!” She grabbed a handful of sweet wrappers and threw them in Csethiro’s direction. They barely made it a foot passed her hand, and fell gently to the floor like autumn leaves.

“My only wish is to serve the Ceredada and the Emperor, Zhasanai,” Csethiro curtsied respectfully, “But please, for the love our fathers bear each other, tell us your sorrows, so that we might bring you comfort.”

Eager for the chance to gain more attention, Csoru wailed, and Csethiro settled at her feet, quietly taking her place in the drama for the girl’s entertainment. “It was terrible, Csethiro! Just terrible! He threatened to relegate us!” The other ladies gasped, but Csethiro set her jaw. Csoru wailed. “He refused to let us keep our title, even though he doesn’t have an empress. He said if we did not do as commanded, he would send us to a country manor.” Her face wrinkled acidly at the word.

Csoru went on, bemoaning Edrehasivar’s choice of fashion, and treatment of her, but Csethiro tuned it out, allowing herself to think instead of the threat of exile. Already, the Emperor had confirmed her worst fears: He, just like his father, gave no care to the happiness of those around him, eager to banish others at the smallest perceived slight. Her thoughts turned to her great aunt, Arbelan Drazharan. Once the empress, and the first wife of Edrehasivar’s father, she had proven barren, and was set aside. But rather than treat her with any type of dignity, or respect, he had relegated her to Cethoree, where she had spent the intervening years in virtual isolation.

Csethiro’s own father, Arbelan’s nephew, had eschewed her company after that, and refused to admit he had any relation to her. Fear of her disfavor with the emperor had led him, and many others, to act as if she simply did not exist. Yet, now the Marquess Ceredel seemed willing to risk that same fate for his own daughter. For what? Political power? So that her family could dance to the tune of a new Emperor? An Emperor who was quickly turning out to be just like his tempermental father?

Unconsciously, Csethiro’s face soured as she contemplated the fate her father seemed eager to push her into. Her reverie was broken upon hearing someone say her name. She looked up to see Csoru raising an eyebrow. “What has you so out of sorts, Csethiro?”

Csethiro laughed and looked down. “Forgive us, Csoru Zhasanai. We were thinking of our own disappointment in the Emperor’s behavior.”

As she expected, Csoru nodded approvingly, and patted Csethiro’s hand in a maternal fashion. “Yes, we find more and more we agree with Princess Sheveän. Edrehasivar Zhas is proving himself to be inexperienced. Hopefully his advisors will teach him well.”

Csethiro bowed her head, and remained quiet as conversation turned from the Emperor’s behavior to his choice of secretary. The ladies cooed over how handsome they found Mer Aisava, who until yesterday had been a courier in the employ of the Lord Chancellor’s office. No one knew what he had said to the Emperor when he delivered the message, but whatever it was, it seemed enough to earn him a promotion to Imperial Secretary. Csethiro couldn’t help but think bitterly to herself that none of these ladies would have even noticed the man, had the Emperor’s appointment not transfigured him into someone worthy of notice.

Cora came the room, and bowed. “Dach’Osmin Loran Duchenin, Csoru Zhasanai.” The widowed empress nodded, and motioned for the page to allow the Lord Chancellor’s niece in, and Csethiro rose to her feet. If she had to pick one girl at court to be her heart-sister, and it came down to Csoru or Loran, she’d take Csoru any day over the Duchenada harpy. The very sound of her voice, and the insincerity of her actions, led her to be Csethiro’s least favorite person at court.

Loran entered, wearing a black dress, with ivory trim and fastenings. Not quite imperial white, but certainly enough to imply it. She curtsied politely to Csoru, murmuring, “Csoru Zhasanai,” before rising and turning her attention to Csethiro, a self-satisfied smirk on her overly-maquillaged face.

“Dach’Osmin Ceredin! We should have known you would be here. One can smell the sweat from the hall.” She tittered behind her hand, and a few of Csoru’s favorites did the same.

“Dach’Osmin Duchenin!” Csethiro mimicked Loran’s tone sarcastically, “We should have known you would be here. Any time an opportunity presents itself to take advantage of a tragedy, one can find you there.”

A few of the other women giggled, and Csoru smirked. Csethiro wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the Zhasanai had set this up, purely for her own amusement.

“It isn’t taking advantage when one dutifully follows the commands of their father. Not that we would expect you to notice. How many times has your honorable father attempted to bring you in line?”

Csethiro smiled. “Bring us in line, why, Dach’Osmin, haven’t you heard? Our father is the one ensuring we are trained in the sword, and it is our own beloved Zhasanai who gifted us our first weapon six years ago.” She turned and bowed her head respectfully to Csoru, who was sitting up, eyes bright, watching the pair.

Loran giggled, and wrinkled her nose. After nearly eight years at court, Csethiro knew what that meant: Loran was about to try a more vicious attack. “Yes. Eshevis Tethimar mentioned seeing you in the yard, grunting and thrusting with the Emperor’s second Nohecharei?”

Csethiro smiled gently, quick with her retort: “Oh, when did he find time to tell you that? When you were grunting and thrusting with him?”

Loran smiled serenely. “Why, Dach’Osmin! You do yourself discredit! Of course it’s news that any man was able to pry you out of Arch Duchess Vedero’s arms for a few hours.”

Csethiro’s stepmother covered her face with her hand, and groaned quietly. The rumors of a sexual relationship between the Arch Duchess and Csethiro had persisted for years. She opened her mouth to respond, but Csoru cut her off, suddenly hopping up. “That’s right! Forgive us, Dach’Osmin Ceredin, we were asked to give you an invitation.” She snapped her fingers, and a servant came forward with a black bordered envelope, and offered it to Csethiro. She took it and flipped it over, recognizing her own name written in Vedero’s elegant script. Looking up from the envelope, Csethiro saw the Csoru flit her eyes toward the door.

“Aah, yes, of course.” She curtsied toward Csoru. “Forgive us, Dach’Osmin Duchenin, but we will have to listen to your prattling another time.”

With that, Csethiro swept out of the room, to the raucous sound of laughter.

* * *

 

Csethiro was shown into Vedero’s apartments quickly, though how much of that could be attributed to Vedero’s eagerness to see her, or the thundercloud that hung about her, one could not say. She was quite aware that she could be terrifying when she didn’t attempt to rein her emotions in, and that was only outmatched by how icy and unapproachable she was when she did. She found Vedero toying with lenses for her telescope, holding them over the intricate beadwork of her skirts and examining the craftsmanship.

Vedero waved off her formal greeting, and motioned to the chair beside her. “I’ve just received new lenses, Csethiro. I wanted to show thee.” Csethiro took the indicated seat, and looked over Vedero’s shoulder. She could see the way dark paint had been poured through the hole in the center of the clear glass beads, allowing them to reflect pale white light while style flickering with mourning appropriate colors.

“Interesting. Hast thou seen the stars, yet?” Csethiro wondered if her own clothing would show such fine craftsmanship under the glass.

The Arch Duchess laughed. “They just arrived today, Csethiro.” She lifted the lense up, looking at Csethiro through it. “Thou art getting wrinkles, my friend.”

It was Csethiro’s turn to laugh, and she pushed Vedero playfully. “Come off it, Vedero. If I have wrinkles thou hast grey hairs. We are of an age.”

The two women amused themselves for a time, looking at various things around Vedero’s apartments under the lenses, noting excellent and shoddy craftsmanship in the furniture, and the tiny lines that twisted over their fingertips. Vedero fretted over the callouses, both old and new, that swordplay left on Csethiro’s hands, while Csethiro teased her for not having callouses at all. “Your hands are as soft as thou art, Vedero,” Csethiro chuckled. “I suppose it’s good that your brother will find a match for you soon, since thou art too soft for any real work.”

Vedero scowled. “Aye, mayhaps I will ask him to marry thee quickly, then. We can be in marital misery together.”

“Hast thou not heard? Half the court thinks we already are!” Vedero giggled girlishly at Csethiro’s response. The rumors of a relationship between the two of them had persisted for some time, mostly driven by their close relationship, Vedero eschewing the company of men, and Csethiro’s own masculine tendencies. They seemed to be an old fall back for the court, whenever there was nothing new to be scandalized over.

After giggling for a few moments, Vedero pressed her forehead against Csethiro’s. “I must ask thee a favor, Csethiro.”

“Anything,” Csethiro could not think of anything she would not grant her friend, so the promise came easy.

“These next few days will be a trial. What with Maia’s coronation tomorrow night, and my father’s-” Vedero’s voice faltered, and Csethiro took her hand gently. The Arch Duchess exhaled slowly, then continued. “And my father’s funeral the next evening. I would ask the to sit with me through both, so that I can lean on thee for support through this trial.”

Csethiro nodded. “Of course. I wouldst not allow thee to whether these things alone in any case. At least with this request I will not have to fight my way through the guards to thy side.”

Vedero grinned. “Truly, that might be enough to draw the court’s attention away from the scandal of a goblin emperor.”

“Then maybe I should, for thy half-brother’s sake. If he weren’t so terrible.”

Vedero quirked her eyebrow. “What dost thou mean?”

Csethiro sighed. “Apparently, he threatened to relegate Csoru.”

The shock showed openly on Vedero’s face. “What?”

“Aye,” Csethiro said, “thy brother appears to be more like thy father than I’d thought.”


	4. The Coronation of Edrehasivar VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vedero and Csethiro prepare for the Coronation. Eshevis Tethimar makes an unexpected visit. A surprising person has arrived at court, and a new Emperor is crowned.

While there were many rites and rituals surrounding the Coronation of an Emperor, very few of them required anything specific form his courtiers, save attendance. The only “obligation” Csethiro had, if it could even be called that, would be to drink to the Emperor’s health at dinner with the rest of the Court.

Regardless of obligation, or the late hour of the coronation itself, there were a dizzying array of luncheons, salons, and teas available for the enterprising young noblewoman to attend. Virenu was in the midst of deciding which Csethiro should attend, despite her protests about Vedero’s requests, when Vedero’s secretary, a blessed angel sent by the Lady of Stars herself, arrived to summon Csethiro.

So it was that the two women found themselves hiding out quietly in Vedero’s apartments, sipping tea and discussing the unseasonable chill, when one of the maids appeared in the doorway, near trembling. 

“Dach’Osmer Eshevis T-Tethimar, your G-grace,” She stammered out, giving a quick curtsey, even as the Tethimada heir stormed into the room, his face thick with thunderclouds. 

“What did you _say_ to him?” he demanded of Vedero, shaking a crumpled letter in his fist. “We warned you not to put up much of a fuss, Arch Duchess, yet here we are, receiving non-sensical letters full of trivialities and-”

“Dach’Osmer Tethimar!” Csethiro shouted, on her feet. 

It only occurred to Csethiro, a moment later, that Eshevis Tethimar had not realized she was there. In his anger at whatever the letter said, he had moved straight for Vedero, but when he turned to look at her, the burning anger in his eyes cooled to a frigid malice. Csethiro felt a chill in her bones that she was absolutely positive had nothing to do with the weather.

“Of course you’re here,” Eshevis said, his voice cool and even. He stalked across the room towards Csethiro, who noted the maid running out of the room from the corner of her eye, before he blocked her view of the door. He glanced over his shoulder at Vedero and smirked. “Did you think your little _marno_ would protect you when we learned of your disobedience?”

Csethiro, for her part, wasn’t about to go quietly. She scrambled back, towards the wall, and grabbed one of the decorative swords hanging behind the Drazhadeise Crest on the wall. She tugged on the hilt with all her strength, and was shocked to find only about a foot of blade came with it, ending in a blunt stump. It was better than nothing.

When she whirled back to face Eshevis, he was laughing. “What, did you think this would be like one of your stories, Dach’Osmin Ceredin?” He drew closer, and Csethiro kept the stubby blade between them. “Are you going to kill us with that blunted thing, and the Arch Duchess swoon into your arms, forgetting propriety?” 

His smile was ice, and did not reach his eyes. “Come then, my lady. Let’s see what you--” He stopped as a fine black slipper, accented with garnet beads, hit the side of his head. His gaze snapped to Vedero, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Csethiro leapt. The short blade caught him, flat, across the side of his neck, leaving an angry red mark. While he turned to him in outrage, Csethiro stamped on his foot, hard, but he already had his hand around her wrist.

“Unhand her this instant, Dach’Osmer Tethimar,” Vedero said, and her eyes flashed the same way her father’s had when someone displeased him. “You will leave these rooms immediately, and you will not return without an express invitation, lest the whole court learn that a _woman_ managed to strike you with a blade.” 

Eshevis fumed momentarily, caught between lashing out and arguing, when two members of the Untheleneise Guard entered the room, following the maid. They looked nervously, from Csethiro, with the stubby little blade, to Tethimar, the mark on his neck darkening quickly, to Vedero, obviously in some distress. “Are you all right, your Grace?” The guard asked, moving toward the Arch Duchess.

“We’re fine, but thank you. Dach’Osmer Tethimar was just _leaving_.” Vedero turned her gaze from Eshevis to the Guard, clearly dismissing him. “Would you ensure that he does not get lost on his way out of our apartments?”

To his credit, Tethimar didn’t fight the guard as he was escorted away. He merely shot Csethiro a scathing look, and was gone.

Csethiro managed to last all of forty-five seconds after he was gone before she collapsed on the ground, a heap of skirts, fast, panting breaths tearing their way in and out of her body against her will. She shook violently, the rest of the world falling away, leaving her staring at Vedero’s shoe, still laying on the rug. Her eyes roved over the object, picking out every detail: the slight scuff marks on the bottom of the slipper, the small garnet and onyx beads, sewn onto the shoe in the shape of a flower. She was counting them, in her head, trying to calm down, and had reached fifty-six beads when Vedero’s hands, clutching a porcelain teacup full of tea, broke her line of sight.

“Csethiro,” her voice called, gently. “Csethiro, my friend. Thou must drink. For me.” 

With trembling hands, Csethiro took the cup, and sipped a little. The chamomile tea soothed her nerves, and she felt the shaking begin to slow, then stop. When she looked up, Vedero was kneeling over her, with the maid standing behind her. 

“There thou art,” Vedero said, and she smiled. “I was worried. Art thou hurt?”

“No,” Csethiro responded, and laughed nervously. “I’m well, an thou art?”

Vedero nodded. “I’m well, thanks to thee.” She looked over her shoulder at the maid. “We will be receiving no more guests other than Dach’Osmin Ceredin until after our father’s wake. We are going to see that our friend is well and good, and we will take our supper in the parlor.”

The maid bobbed a curtsey and ambled away, leaving the two women alone.

“Thou _wilt_ finish that cup, Csethiro, and _then_ we will adjourn to the parlor. Or wilst thou trouble me with thy obstinance?” 

Csethiro laughed, nervously. “It’s… it’s not like it is in books.” 

“No,” Vedero said, “And the fact that thou sprang to my defense anyway makes thee all the more courageous.”

* * *

The tiny clock in Arch Duchess Vedero Drazhin’s rooms chimed eight in the evening, cutting through Vedero’s weeping. “Use these,” she said to the maid, choking back tears. “They were a gift from our father, on our last birthday.” She gestured to a pair of fine tashin sticks, jet black, with Drazhadeise cats carved of garnet balanced on the ends. “He wanted us to have something more adult to wear on the anniversary of mother’s death.” 

The maid nodded, silently, and fixed the sticks into the Arch Duchess’s hair. Csethiro sat on a small stool nearby, holding Vedero’s hand tightly. “I’m sure thy father would appreciate how beautiful they look on thee.”

“I must swear an oath of loyalty to that… _hobgoblin_ ,” Vedero said, her nose wrinkling. “Forgive me, that is unkind… I just... “ Tears welled in her eyes. “Thou _knowst_ what Father said about him, why he kept him away.”

Csethiro nodded. The court had been full of rumors of Arch Duke Maia Drazhar, the “inbred, lunatic, hobgoblin”, only son of Varenechibel IV and his mad fourth wife, Empress Chenelo.

“It’s not fair!” Vedero wailed, and buried her face in her hands. “It isn’t! Even Idra would be better than… than…”

Csethiro pressed her lips together. Vedero would regret these words later, when she had spent some time with her grief. Though the Arch Duchess was very good at keeping a neutral face in public, behind closed doors, she had a tender heart, and was prone to long spells of weeping.

This, of course, made Csethiro all the more protective of her. 

“Just stick close to Nemrïan, Vedero,” she said, patting her friend’s hand. “I will be saving thee a seat. My family will want me close to the front anyway, hopefully to catch his eye.” Csethiro giggled. “Thou wilt have to tell me thy impressions of him, afterward.”

Vedero’s tears managed to cease, and she made a face. “Don’t tell me thou art hoping for his affection?”

It was Csethiro’s turn to make a face. “Thou knowst I do not wish to be tied to any man. Else my father would have seen me wed six years ago.” Her tone shifted, to one of concern. “I fear that both our fates are tied to the whims of this goblin emperor, my friend. An I will have the measure of him, before he picks thy husband.”

* * *

Csethiro entered the great Untheileian behind her father and stepmother, who was making a great show of her pregnancy, though in truth her body was not much changed, yet, despite the cessation of her monthly courses. She bid her parents farewell at the edge of the seats, and walked over to the Drazhadeise section, at the very front, nodding to the secretary as she took a seat. She tried to ignore the angry glares from Loran Duchenin across the way, where she sat in a place of prominence near her cousin, Nurevis, and the rest of the Lord Chancellor’s family.

The court rustled nervously, murmuring as they awaited their new emperor, until, at last, the doors at the end of the hall opened, and the Lord Chancellor, Uleris Chavar, could be seen. In unison, the courtiers rose to their feet, and watched the procession, Chavar at the head, make its way towards the front of the room, where the Archprelate waited. 

At first, to Csethiro’s eye, the Emperor was a white smudge in a sea of black, only coming into clarity a few dozen yards away. His eyes were wide, seeing everything and yet nothing. He seemed so harmless, Csethiro almost found herself feeling sorry for him; the half remembered conversation with Csoru, where she confessed he had threatened to relegate her stomped that out quickly enough. No one deserved to be relegated like that. One would think a lifetime of it would have made him a little sympathetic. 

As the rest of the procession passed by, Csethiro was shocked to see her great aunt, Arbalan Drazharan, amongst the Drazhadeise attending the Emperor. What was she doing here? She had no time for questions, or answers, as the Drazhada peeled away, and she found herself helping Vedero to her seat. 

The Emperor climbed the last few steps to the dias, and stood before the Archprelate, who held the Ethuverazhid Mura in both hands.

“Will you solemnly promise and swear to govern the people of the Ethuveraz in mercy and justice?” the Archprelate asked, as the gaslight flickered in the reflection of his mask.

“We solemnly promise to do so,” the goblin replied, though Csethiro doubted those in the back could hear him. She scowled. The Ethuveraz did not need a timid emperor.

“Will you use your power to uphold the Law, and bring Mercy to your people?”

“I will.”

“Will you do your utmost to maintain the power of the Gods, to preserve the hope they give to the hearts of your people?”

“All this I promise to do,” the Emperor said.

“Then kneel for the last time, Edrehasivar Drazhar, and accept the crown of the Elflands!” The Archprelate shouted, placing the Imperial crown on the goblin’s head. For his part, Edrehasivar VII managed to stand, and turn to face the court. 

Clutching each other’s hands tightly, Csethiro and Vedero curtsied. If nothing else came of this day, at least she could spite Csoru.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to get out. My life has been a little bit crazy, but I couldn't forgive myself for going out this weekend if I didn't try to get something done. I want to thank you all for your patience from the bottom of my heart. I hope you enjoyed it!


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